


in the dojo

by the Girl in 221C (naienko)



Series: Vignettes from the Girl in 221C [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Martial Arts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naienko/pseuds/the%20Girl%20in%20221C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock really is a fast learner ... when he wants to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the dojo

Summer heaved herself up from the computer chair and winced at the crackle of realigning bones in her spine. She was tired, and stiff, and it seemed like _everything_ hurt. Every time she closed her eyes, code danced behind the lids. But the project was done. The last parenthesis was closed, the last tag tweaked, everything wrapped up in a neat package and uploaded to the client.

She hadn't been out of the house since the previous Thursday, and she wasn't sure if anyone beside Mrs Hudson had either. Time to go drag everyone out. She didn't bother to do more than check the thermometer by the door before she was slinging herself around the balustrades and up the stairs to 221B. Both doors were open, as expected, and there was John in one armchair and Sherlock in the other, both of them with noses buried in books.

John looked up; Sherlock didn't. Planting her hands on her hips, Summer told the room at large, "Usually I would be the last one to say this, but what are you doing inside on a day like this?"

"There's nothing on the telly?" John offered, but she could tell he was glad of the excuse.

"Bah," she retorted. "Who watches television when they could be outside?" She strode over to John and grabbed his sleeve, trying to lift him out of the chair. "At least come walk with me. I might need someone to patch me up if I get a sudden cramp from sitting so long, doctor." Summer stuck her tongue out cheekily at him.

"We can't have that, can we, Sherlock?" John locked wrists with Summer and pulled himself up, then her into a hug.

"No, indeed," Sherlock said, with a hint of sarcasm.

She extricated herself from John, and turned for the door. "Anyway, I want to work out, and that's not as much fun alone." With that parting shot, she was gone down the stairs, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

"I expect if you want to know what that was all about, you'll have to come along," John said, and stuck his mobile in his pocket.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but tagged along anyway. Reading had gotten boring.

* * *

The trio sauntered along easily in the mid-afternoon sunshine, hands in pockets amid a companionable silence. The slanting rays gave Sherlock's curls auburn lights and brought out the gold in John and Summer's hair, flanking him to either side.

"Sherlock," Summer began, sounding innocently curious, "I want to ask you something."

"What?"

"What did you mean, about Lestrade the other night?"

"I thought it was obvious."

"Yes, I know you did. I want to know what you're seeing, because clearly I'm not."

"We can't all be consulting detectives."

She whacked him with the end of her plait. "You're not taking me seriously."

He lifted a hand in belated self-defense. "I am!"

"Then answer the question."

"He asks about you when we're on cases," John offered unexpectedly.

Summer spluttered a noise of extreme disagreement. "You're making that up."

"His eyes flicker when he sees you, and he watches you quite frequently. I'd estimate he appears in Baker Street half again as often now as he did before you moved in. When you meet with other people at the pub, he sits next you, and only you."

She whacked him again. "You never estimate."

"The maths are boring." Sherlock tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. "He never greets you first."

"Because he has to compose himself first?" Summer made a wry, strange face. "You are definitely making this up."

"He's really, really not," John interposed, before either of them could get off on the relative merits of lying and the uses thereof. They'd drifted along, slower and slower along the Park paths, and he ambled to a stop beside a bench and dropped down on it.

Summer facepalmed, hard. John could hear the crack of skin to skin. "Sherlock, he's _married_."

"So's Anderson."

"You are not comparing me to _him_!"

Sherlock shrugged. "You have considerably more self-control and stronger moral instincts than he does, certainly."

Summer whirled herself to a stop in front of Sherlock and snapped, quick and sharp as heat lightning, "Oh, fuck off, Sherlock."

The dark-haired genius eyed her coolly. Her eyes went narrow, calculating. She locked her fingers together and popped all the joints, then pointedly turned her back to Sherlock.

"I," she announced to the trees at large, "am going to do forms now."

Sherlock made a grumpy sound, but sat down beside John anyway, steepling his fingers under his chin.

She started with a high, arcing stretch, long arms up to the sky, before dropping over at the waist at such speed her plait bounced off the grass. She hung there for long, breathless moments before swinging back upright and arcing backward. Shaking out all her limbs, Sherlock watched her draw herself up, spine perfectly aligned, hands fisted in front of her hips.

Despite himself, Sherlock began to catalogue the form: left hand snapped up to shield the head; sharp fast high kick immediately followed by a punch high to the face of the imaginary opponent. Repeat on opposite side (note hip twist which powers the punch). Hands high, bladed, and sharp down, guarding the centre of body mass with the rear arm (could be used to jerk opponent off their feet); stepping forward, a double-armed block to the front, presenting the side of the body, with open hands; a block guarding the head; then a driving punch forward accompanied by a high shout.

Interesting. Repeat the first six movements; again raise the arms, but closed hands this time, and snap down (definitely a throw); repeat of the double-armed body block, but with closed hands; a snapping block (possibly a strike, given the speed with which she executed it) from the ear across the front of the body; and another driving punch forward, followed by another repeat of the initial six motions.

Simple. Shoving up his shirt-sleeves, Sherlock unfolded himself from the bench and approached Summer, who had withdrawn to the poised, upright position, breathing hard. She cocked an eyebrow at him and fell out of position. "You gonna try now?"


End file.
